


How Many Wonders

by boomsherlocka



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Inspired by the Little Mermaid, M/M, Merlock, Sherlock AU, Sherlock is a Merman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 02:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12471360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomsherlocka/pseuds/boomsherlocka
Summary: The currents had changed sometime in the night. A storm was brewing; Sherlock could feel the colder ocean water chilling his gills. He stretched out on the smooth flat rock in the centre of his grotto, back arching a bit as he tried to decide what he should do with the rest of his day. His gossamer fine fins fluttered with the changing current, and Sherlock flicked his tail in irritation.





	How Many Wonders

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this for years. I finally finished it. Enjoy.

The currents had changed sometime in the night. A storm was brewing; Sherlock could feel the colder ocean water chilling his gills. He stretched out on the smooth flat rock in the centre of his grotto, back arching a bit as he tried to decide what he should do with the rest of his day. His gossamer fine fins fluttered with the changing current, and Sherlock flicked his tail in irritation.

He could always sneak up towards the surface to sift through anything that was tossed overboard during the maelstrom brewing. Last storm he had recovered a crate of dark rum, barely tainted with salt water, and the body of a young sailor with mottled skin and wild brown hair. The sailor was wearing the uniform of the British navy, terribly overdressed for his watery tomb. Sherlock dragged the body down into his grotto, settling a heavy stone on its stomach to watch him slowly decay.

The rum he had given to the sirens as tribute, as he had no interest. Their leader had extended her single hooked claw, curling it under Sherlock’s chin as she leaned in to brush her lips against his. His skin crawled as he swam away and her song echoed through the water he left behind.

Mycroft had bristled at the introduction of the human corpse, just as he bristled at the introduction of anything to do with humans. Sherlock revelled in it, watching the fish nibble away at the flesh of the body until there was nothing left but bones. Mycroft had called him morbid, wrinkled his nose at the smell that came from the water-logged body, but Sherlock had placed the skull in a place of honour, more likely to speak to bone than his brother any day.

But that had been ages ago, and Sherlock was bored again. The sirens were trilling their excitement for the coming storm, and Sherlock’s fanned ears twitched in anticipation.

With a quick flick of his whipcord tail he was off toward the surface of the ocean, eyes trained on the silhouette of the ship blocking the rays of dying sun from cutting through the water. Schools of dolphins were retreating from the surface as the storm broke above head, and Sherlock’s predatory grin widened.

Just before he surfaced something fell into the water, a cannonball of bubbles that shot deep into the dark below. Sherlock could not help but follow, even as he felt something else fall into the water behind him. He shot forward as if propelled by force, one of his webbed hands reaching forward to wrap around…another hand. One that was small and rough and the entrancing colour of dark sand.

A human. The human’s fingers pressed against his webbing, trying to tighten his grip, but Sherlock twisted his hand to dig his talons deeper into the human’s soft flesh, dragging him closer. His eyes glinted as the human came into focus, a halo of dark blonde hair framing his face. It was another male, small in stature with weather worn visage. He too wore the colours of the British navy, highly polished buttons that would draw the curious beaks of fish.

Sherlock, too, was curious.

Sherlock pulled him closer still, trying to decipher if the human was still alive. His skin was warm to the touch, though the frigid ocean water was quickly wicking away said warmth. Sherlock lowered his lips to press against the tender flesh of the inside of the human’s wrist. There was a gentle pulse that fluttered there, and Sherlock startled away as if burned. He was still alive.

They had never survived for this long before.

Sherlock could not help the startled sound that escaped his lips at the realization. It seemed implausible, after such a dramatic fall and so long underwater, but the human was still alive. Just as Sherlock inched closer the human’s eyes shot open, wide and full of fear. The blue of his gaze was the same colour as the ocean surrounding him, and for a moment Sherlock was entranced by the sheer poetry of it. He was pulled back to reality by the panicked stream of bubbles that escaped the human’s lips.

As if struck by lightning the human started to fight toward the surface, tearing himself away from Sherlock’s grip and stroking with everything he had. Sherlock circled below him, watching in amusement as the human struggled in vain. He would run out of oxygen before he could break the surface, and Sherlock could drag his corpse down to his grotto. Watch as the blond halo was swept away by decay and fickle tides.

The human’s strokes slowed as the last trickle of bubbles were forced from his lungs. Slowly, so slowly, his eyes drifted closed again. He was losing consciousness, and his furious kicking died down to nothing. The human’s body looked so small and vulnerable, suspended as he was in the immense darkness of the sea.

Sherlock’s curiousness was piqued as he curled around the human’s body. Several thoughts fought for dominance in his head. It would be very easy to let him die. He might be dead already.

But perhaps…

Sherlock wrapped an arm around the human’s waist and shot toward the surface. He pushed the human’s head up through the breaking waves, keeping him above water as they bulleted towards the shoreline.

With the strength of his muscular tail he pushed both of them up onto the beach. The human’s body was limp and he was not breathing as Sherlock leaned over his body to study his face. He lifted a hand, using one of his claws to push aside some of the man’s blonde hair which had matted to his forehead. He leaned in closer to the human, taking a deep breath. He smelled like the ocean and something that Sherlock was not familiar with, and he flicked his tongue out to gently taste his skin. Salt. Sherlock’s mouth watered. “Fantastic,” Sherlock said, his voice a low rumble.

Suddenly the human’s body convulsed and his eyes shot open, coughing up lungfuls of water. Sherlock retreated, dragging himself back toward the water as quickly as he could. The human was gasping, trying to catch his breath, and Sherlock could not get away fast enough. Approaching the surface was always dangerous, and he had saved a human. Put himself in danger. He slipped into the water, lingering for a moment before disappearing back into the depths.

He wanted very much to check on the man, make sure he was alright, but it would not be wise. He kept swimming, even when he could not get the human’s face out of his mind.

On his way back to the grotto he ran across the other item that had been thrown overboard: a statue, carved from marble. The subject’s face was familiar, stunningly so, and something in Sherlock’s chest tightened. It was his human.

Sherlock tried not to consider how little time it took to think of the human as his own.

Sherlock dragged the statue back to his grotto, tucking it away in a darkened corner.

The human was only for him.

 

\---

  


The ship would take months to repair, even with all the Navy’s best men on the task. Until then the _HMS Northumberland_ would remain docked, and Captain John Watson had been ordered by General Sholto that he and his crew were to remain in the village as the honoured guests of Lord Stamford.

John was grateful for the time to recuperate. He was not sure how he survived being tossed overboard. His memories were murky and strange—most likely caused by the lack of oxygen to his brain for such an extended period of time. He could not trust the memories as they existed. They were too fantastical, too marvellous.

What felt most concrete, the most real, was a sound. A voice, one that must have belonged to the gentleman who had discovered him washed ashore. It was low voice, deep and rumbling like ominous thunder. John’s bones shook at the memory of it, and he longed to hear that voice again if only to identify and thank the man who had roused him from certain death.

The more he tried to remember what the voice sounded like, however, the faster the nuances slipped away. Every day he forgot more and more, until he was no longer sure he could recognize the voice if he heard it again. He only hoped that if he were to hear the voice again he would feel the same weight in his bones, the same deep recognition he had felt there on the beach.

Lord Stamford was aware of his distracted thoughts, and found it deeply amusing. He accused John of being in love with his mysterious guardian angel, chuckling at the flights of romantic fancy he painted with his words. John’s answering smiles were tired but genuine. He enjoyed Lord Stamford’s company, their shared laughter burning his belaboured lungs. They would dine together every evening, drinking wine and regaling each other with tales; John recounted naval battles and his journeys to foreign lands while Stamford told him tales and legends of his home land.

Of all the tales Lord Stamford told, John found the stories about Merfolk the most enchanting. They stirred something in him, a spark of familiarity, the flash of a memory he had tried his best to forget. Stamford’s descriptions of cruel, vicious creatures with reflective eyes like cats and hooked talons used to drag their victims underwater made John’s skin crawl. Stamford warned him of their frightful visages, their alliances with the sirens, who would lure sailors away from their ships for the mermaids to shred so that they may all feast on the tender flesh. Humans they enjoyed above all else, a delicacy both rare and treasured.

John had nightmares most nights. About the storm that ripped him from the deck of his ship, about cannon fodder and eerie siren’s calls and sharp claws shredding his skin and muscle. He would wake drenched in sweat, body aching as if he had been running for miles. Perhaps he had been.

On those nights he would slip out of Stamford’s residence, making the short trek to the stretch of white sand that framed the ocean that he called his home and that haunted his nights. He would stare at the horizon where the water met sky until his vision blurred. More often than not he would fall asleep there in the warm sand, waking up at day break with a hand resting in the risen tide. There was often the faint sound of singing but as soon as John would try to decipher the words it would fade away, carried off by the sea breeze.

Stamford’s land was beautiful, the weather fair and air sweet. It was much more beautiful than the dark and heavy grime of East London, where John was raised. His family moved to Northumberland when his father was offered a job managing a sheep farm. It was a far cry better than his job as a night cleaner of a butchers, and John was not sorry to see the back of London. His sister, Harriet, felt very differently and decided to stay behind, moving in with a number of other seamstresses she worked with. Their goodbyes were terse and Harriet’s face was stone as John surged forward to pull her into a hug.

He would not see her until shortly before his first naval mission, and when he saw her again he barely recognized her. Her face was swollen, like most of the men and women he knew who had given themselves over to drink. The resemblance to their father was stronger now than it had never been, but John did not mention it. He knew better than to do so. Harry had wept when John bid her farewell again, and this time she initiated their hug goodbye.

As he sailed away from London he appreciated the beauty of the city for the first time. He knew after some time he would wish to return there, perhaps retire there. Start a family. But he had years still to go before his tour of duty would draw to an end.

Had it not been for the stroke of fate, or perhaps a miracle, John would never have had the chance to return to London. He would have been lost at sea, another victim of the fickle waves. He only wished he could thank his saviour in person.

Perhaps one day he would have the chance.

  


\---

 

When Mycroft saw the statue tucked away in the darkest corner of Sherlock’s grotto, he had not hesitated to destroy it. He waved his trident with a violent curse and the marble shattered into nothing more than rubble to litter the bottom of the sea.

It took Sherlock only moments to recover from the shock and let his white hot anger sear through his blood. His attack on his brother was merciless. He left deep scratches over his chest and his face. His claws had been intent on Mycroft’s copper gills but he had been thwarted from reaching that particular goal with a well-placed blow to the side of his head.

Mycroft was surrounded by a hazy cloud of blood for a moment before it dispersed in the water. “You know the danger that lies at the surface,” he snapped, his breathing heavy as he tightened his grip on his trident, ready to blast Sherlock back if need be. “Humans are animals, creatures that will stop at nothing to destroy. They have littered our ocean with evidence of their cruelty, and yet you still hold a fascination. Do you have a death wish, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had no desire to listen to this particular speech again. Mycroft brought it up with stunning regularity. Instead his licked his claws clean of the blood and bits of flesh he had torn from his brother. His initial instinct was to hiss, but that would only serve to spur on his brother’s lecture.

In a huff of puffed-up rage Mycroft left, his barbed crimson tail whipping behind him.

Sherlock threw himself down on his rock, flicking away the little brown nurse shark that sidled up to his side. “Not now Mrs Hudson,” he grumbled, and she looked at him morosely before swimming over to the remains of the statue of his human.

She nudged something toward him, and his ears fanned with interest as he sat up. He swam over to her and scooped the bit of marble up in his hands, heart fluttering in his chest. Somehow his human’s face had survived the blast. From his forehead down to his chin it was all there, and Sherlock curled his claws around it tighter still. Mrs Hudson settled down on the ocean floor, pleased with herself.

After staring at the carved face for far longer than he should have, he tucked it away in a safe place, under a rock near his collection. It was for him alone.

That night he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he thought of the precise moment that the human’s face had gone slack in the water, the moment that all of the fight had left his body and he had resigned himself to death. He felt uncomfortable warmth at the thought, warmth that found him stroking the back of his hand along his genital slit without thinking.

Sherlock ripped his hand away as if burned. His reflective eyes glinted in the near pitch darkness. A wild notion overtook him, one that he knew he should not entertain.

But he did.

He snatched the marble mask from its hiding place and slipped out of his grotto, keeping a keen eye out as he worked his way to the surface. He felt a need deep in his bones to see the human again. His mind focused on savaging him, raking his claws over warm flesh before lapping away the blood that sprang to the surface. He thought of the human’s hand against his slit, of sinking his teeth into his flesh again and again as the human did the same to him.

He thought of a great many things, each more affecting than the last.

When his head broke free of the waves he was close to the beach, the water much warmer here near the surface where the sun held sway. He stayed far enough back as to not be seen by any random passers-by but close enough to study each one.

He knew it was foolish, watching for him like this. There was little chance that the man would be back here, but he had to try.

He wasn’t sure what he would do when he finally laid eyes on the human, but he felt a need to do so.

He tightened his grip on the marble mask and waited until the sun rose over the horizon. He was annoyed by the chirping of gulls and the grating clang of bells on incoming ships, but he pushed past it.

But the human did not come. He waited until his pale skin began to burn in the sunlight before retreating back into the ocean’s depths, frustrated and uncomfortable.

He considered asking the sirens for help singing him to the ocean, but he didn’t want Irene and her kin anywhere near the human. He would definitely not survive such an encounter.

The next idea he courted was just as implausible. Just as dangerous. No one had spied Moriarty since he and his eel were banished from the kingdom after attempting to kill Mycroft and take his trident. He had used strange magicks, spells and incantations that Sherlock had never encountered before. Watching his tentacles wave in lazy but practiced movements was breath-taking, and even then Sherlock had wanted to know more.

Moriarty left with a shark-toothed smile, forming his tentacles into something akin to human legs before walking away from the kingdom forever. Sherlock had been mesmerized then, but now…now he wondered the extent of Moriarty’s power.

Could he truly grant legs as wishes?

Sherlock shook his head, diving deeper and deeper until the kingdom came into view. If he saw the curl of a camouflaged tentacle or the whipping tail of an eel, he wrote it off as a figment of his imagination.

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him outside of his grotto, scavenging the ocean floor with a little crab keeping a weary distance. The crab had been appearing more and he could definitely see Mycroft’s influence. The crab, which he had decided to call Anthea, never came too close. She kept her distance, her small eyes impassive as she watched him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and disappeared into his grotto, deciding that it was worth trying to sleep again. He knew he would go back to the surface again after the sun went down without even deciding to do so. A warm current wrapped around him as he closed his eyes, settling in for a rest. He had a long night ahead.

  
\---

 

John had a dream, one that was different than the others that recounted the horrors of the storm. He woke up sweating and panting, but this time it was from arousal. He stripped out of his bedclothes and gathered the linens for a wash, leaving them in a bundle at the foot of his bed as he tried not to think about the details of the dream.

He rubbed his fingertips over the pinprick wounds on his forearm, not for the first time trying to remember where they had come from. In his dream they were caused by the sharp points of fingernails as he was dragged deeper into the water.

John was naked, eyes somehow kept closed as a lithe body curled around him, hands and teeth everywhere. The voice that spoke to him was low and melodic, whispering things that John couldn’t comprehend but made his skin sing nonetheless. John opened his mouth to respond but only a stream of bubbles left his lips, and all at once he realized he was drowning. He tried to fight back to the surface but the…the creature, the siren held him tighter. It drew him against the tight line of muscle that was its body.

John had felt something against his lips. He let out a surprised gasp as the creature filled his lungs with salt-tinged air, breathing for him as John’s cock was engulfed in a hand as soft as a fish belly.

The creature swallowed John’s moans and cries as it continued to breathe for him, and it was all too much.

John woke up mid orgasm, his hips arching off of the bed into his strange lover’s non-existent hand.

He had gone mad. Clearly. The excess of ocean water was causing strange dreams and hallucinations. He should see a doctor.

He was hesitant to do so. He had…he had enjoyed the dream, and he was fairly certain that the creature’s voice was the same as the man who had saved him on the beach. He couldn’t be sure, except for the dark vibrations he felt in his chest at the thought of it.

His day was much the same as it usually was. He had breakfast with Stamford, went for a run along the beach and stopped in to check on the progress of his ship. He tried not to be too discouraged when he saw little progress; ship-building was an arduous task. He would then make time to go into the village to buy a piece of fruit and do his best to ignore the fawning looks of the local women. He had only made the mistake of wearing his uniform into the village once, but everyone seemed to remember that he was the captain of the ship that was docked for repairs. Things were offered to him for free, fruit and jewellery and crafts made by local artisans, but he refused to accept any of it without pay.

They could use the money far more than he could.

He would return to Stamford’s residence in time to wash up a bit and pick up a book to read for a while before dinner. Stamford would ask about the details of his day but John swore to him that it had been too boring to recount.

“You have met someone who strikes your fancy,” Stamford said, not looking up from his dinner plate.

“Pardon?” John asked, fork hovering over his own meal.

“You have the look about you,” Stamford finally replied, looking up at John. “Bright, and a little frightened. You’ve met someone whose company you would enjoy. Or, I suppose, have enjoyed. There is no shame in it, Captain Watson. No shame at all.”

John could feel his cheeks go red. He speared a green bean. “I can assure you, that is not true.”

Stamford hummed but did not argue. John was immensely grateful for that.

Even still, that night he was afraid to fall asleep. He found himself returning to the beach, watching the reflection of the moon on the water ripple with the waves. He saw a splash out of the corner of his eye and he turned to try to catch sight of it again.

Another splash, this time closer. John held his breath and stood, shaking a bit.

He saw something slip out of the water, and at first John thought it a waterlogged corpse. But it wasn’t. The creature’s skin was as pale and smooth as a fish’s belly, save for the areas where black and iridescent purple scales littered its skin. It had wild black hair on its head and large barbed ears on either side of its head.

The creature had no breasts and seemed broader than any female John had ever seen, so he assumed it was male. His eyes were slanted and caught the moonlight like a cat’s eye would, and John suddenly felt very afraid. He took a step back from the waterline. “Get…get away, you harpy.”

The creature seemed to roll his eyes. “I am no harpy,” he replied. “They are female, first and foremost, and if I were you wouldn’t be able to back away as you are doing now.”

John felt a hollowness in his chest. The creature’s voice was familiar, of course it was. It was the voice that brought him back from near death and that had been haunting his most intimate dreams. “You are something of the sort, you…”

“The males of my species do not have a deadly song,” he said as he rolled onto his back in the water, exposing the long line of his torso. “You humans have many names for the females: sirens, harpies, mermaids, but they are all the same. They can appear alluring if they wish, or they can force you to come to them with their song if they so desire. They are ghastly; we males try to avoid them as much as possible.”

John watched the creature swim lazy circles, his eyes never leaving John. He felt more scrutinized than he ever had in his life. “You… you are the one who saved my life,” John finally said. The creature’s mouth stretched into what appeared to be a smile as it swam closer, its large tail curling up against the sand bank. “Why did you do that?”

“You survived longer than any human had before,” the creature replied. “I was… surprised.”

John watched the creature rake his long claws through the sand, drawing out spiralling patterns before destroying them. “And you don’t have a song? You don’t have a way to get people to… to think about you?”

The creature frowned slightly. “I have told you that I am no female. I do not possess the trickery of their kind.”

John nodded, sinking down on the sand. The creature slithered slightly closer. “Lord Stamford says that they lure men out to sea and then you rip them to shreds. You hunt together.”

The creature scoffed. “I have no need to hunt. I scavenge what is thrown over the sides of your ships. I scavenged you.”

John hummed, resting his forearms on his knees. “I suppose that’s true.”

The creature threw something his way, and it landed in the surf at John’s feet. When he picked it up he groaned. “Oh god, this awful thing. I was sort of relieved it went overboard, truth be told.”

The creature made a strange sort of clicking sound, a frown on his face. “I find it an excellent likeness.”

John tossed it back to the creature. “You can keep it, then. I’ve no use for it.”

The creature disappeared under the water for a moment before reappearing without the marble. John assumed he had tucked it away somewhere. “What are you called?” the creature asked, looking like he wanted to drag himself closer but not willing to put himself in a situation he couldn’t easily escape with a flick of his tail.

John dug his toes into the sand. “John Watson, Captain of the _HMS Northumberland_.”

“The ship that spat you out?” the creature asked. John chuckled.

“That is indeed the one. And you? What are you called?”

The creature’s tail surfaced behind him, and John was struck by a number of different realizations at once. The first was that the tail was thick with muscle, and it seemed longer proportionately than human legs were. The length was exaggerated by the large, gossamer-like iridescent fin that all but glowed in the moonlight. The creature’s scales appeared to be black in the moonlight. He flashed something that approximated a smile, but his sharp teeth made it seem more threatening than inviting. “I am called Sherlock,” he finally replied, one of his hands sliding along the surface of the water. His fingers were webbed, John noted.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said as he slowly stretched his legs toward the water. Sherlock surveyed them with unguarded interest. “For saving my life,” he added, trying to draw the creature’s attention away from his legs. John wiggled his toes, and Sherlock made a surprised little sound, almost like a click.

Sherlock didn’t reply. He sank back down into the water so only the bridge of his nose and reflective eyes were visible. John realized then that the creature hadn’t blinked, at least not that he could see. Perhaps he had another set of eyelids, ones that were transparent to keep his eyes moist above the surface. John had seen Sherlock’s gills, even as they sat sealed against his long, pale neck. John assumed he had another set somewhere that he kept under the water. John was lost in observation when Sherlock finally surfaced again, asking “Will you come in the water. I wish to…” he made another sound, and it seemed to John that all at once his demeanour softened, became more…human. “I wish to touch those.” His webbed hand motioned to the foot that was nearest to him.

John couldn’t help note the long, sharp claws.

“Will you hurt me, if I do?” John asked, trying to keep fear out of his tone.

Sherlock’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. “No,” he replied after a brief hesitation.

John drew his legs up closer to himself before standing. “I don’t think so,” he finally said, taking a few steps away from the water. “Not… not that I don’t trust you, but…” John sighed, looking down the dark beach. “I don’t. Sorry.”

A series of complex emotions crossed Sherlock’s face before it settled into cool indifference. “Will you come tomorrow? May I tomorrow?”

John was flustered. He was glad it was dark, so that the creature could not see the flush on his cheeks. “Why?”

Sherlock did a slow roll, presenting his stomach again. “I am curious,” he finally said. “Are you not?”

John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I… I am, yes.”

Sherlock’s predatory smile returned. “Good. Tomorrow.”

John picked up his shoes, not giving the creature a solid response.

Even still, he knew that he would be back the next day at dusk.

  


\---

 

They met every evening at dusk for a week. Sherlock would bombard the human, John, with question after question. Long before he relented and slid into the water to allow Sherlock to touch him for the first time, he answered every question with little hesitation. It took time to garner the human’s trust, and Sherlock knew that he had hesitations.

Sherlock did not blame him for his hesitations. Not for a second. If he were not so enamoured with the human, he would not have trusted him either. But he was.

Everything about John fascinated him. How warm his skin was, the coarse hair that covered him. Every inch of the human was covered in hair, though it seemed centralized in certain areas of his body, thicker than the others. Sherlock couldn’t help but note the shiver that wracked the human’s body as he raked his claws through the hair on his left leg slowly, carefully. He loved the way it felt against his hands. Without thinking he slid under the water, dragging his tongue down what John had called his shin. He could feel tension in the human’s muscles but he didn’t pull his leg away. Instead he lowered a hand to trace the sharp points of Sherlock’s right ear. It twitched, out of his control, and John dutifully moved his hand to tangle in Sherlock’s dark, wild hair instead. When he surfaced John was laying back in the tide, the water lapping at his chest. His lower lip seemed swollen, and when he drew it back between his teeth Sherlock understood why.

“What is wrong?” Sherlock asked, wanting very much to press the length of his lithe body against John, but not wanting him to feel like he was being trapped, or drowned. Instead he propelled himself up, settling down on the sand next to John.

“Nothing’s wrong,” John said softly, turning a bit so he could face Sherlock better. He reached out, fingers shaking as he traced the smooth transition line that differentiated Sherlock’s near-translucent skin from dark scales. The gills on Sherlock’s neck flared as he squirmed a bit at the touch. His slit pulsed, swollen and wanting. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”

Sherlock shook his head, hooking a claw in the fabric of John’s trousers. He had abandoned his tunic before getting into the water, and Sherlock had wanted to trace every scar that marred his skin with his tongue and teeth, rewriting them as his own. “Can I have these off?” Sherlock asked. “Why do humans insist on wearing clothes? Humans are so warm anyway.”

John laughed softly, a hand going down to begin work on the buttons. “Our… our bits just sort of hang there, we need a bit of protection.”

“Bits?” Sherlock repeated, brushing his fin against John’s feet. They twitched as they had when Sherlock first touched them, studied them with intensity. John said they were ticklish, and Sherlock understood that they were sensitive, like Sherlock’s own ears and feather-fine gills.

“Genitals, you know,” John glanced at the slope of Sherlock’s body. “Well, maybe you don’t.”

Sherlock took John’s hand and brought it over his slit. John’s fingertips dipped inside him just slightly, just enough for Sherlock to feel his cock begin to unsheathe itself, before he pushed John’s hand away. “I do.”

John made a clicking sound when he swallowed, a sound that reminded him of a mer vocalization. He was wiggling a bit in the water, trying to peel away the wet fabric that encased him, and Sherlock heard it land on the beach with a wet flop. “There…see? All out there.”

And Sherlock did see. He sat up, his eyes sharp in the darkness. John’s genitals were obscured slightly by dark blonde hair, the same colour of hair that grew under his arms. Another place that was ticklish, according to John. Nestled in the hair was John’s own manhood, dark and heavy against his stomach. His testes were exposed too, which made no sense to Sherlock at all. Why on earth did humans have to be so fragile?

Sherlock’s hand moved, reaching out to touch, but John brought his hands up to cover his manhood. “No, don’t…don’t touch. Not sure I trust your claws.”

“I will not hurt you,” Sherlock said, shaking his head a bit. He had not hurt him thus far, what made John think that he would repay this trust with pain? “I will be careful.”

John didn’t move his hands away, only glanced at Sherlock. “So yours…yours stays inside until…” he was changing the subject, but Sherlock was going to allow it.

“Until I am ready to mate,” Sherlock said. “It is…is similar to yours. Longer, thinner. Mermen will mate with each other, there is room enough in our slit. I have not done it, but I have considered it. Much safer than reaching out to a female of our kind.”

John’s hand had shifted slightly in the water and Sherlock didn’t look down to see what he was doing. “Can… can I…”

“Whatever you want, John,” Sherlock said without hesitation. “I will grant it.”

John rose from the water for a moment before settling on top of Sherlock, knees bracketing his fin. John’s hot testes settled against Sherlock’s slit and he couldn’t help the shiver that shot up his spine. It felt like fire, too good, and John rested his hands on Sherlock’s stomach. “If I want it to come out…do I…?”

Sherlock was feeling lightheaded as he drew water though the gills that sat just below his pelvic bone on either side of him. “You simply… you can touch, or… perhaps…” Sherlock waved a hand through the air as his hips arched into John’s warm body.

John nodded, scooting back a bit. The weight of John against his slit disappeared and he nearly moaned at the loss of contact, but soon it was replaced by the gentle strokes of John’s fingertips. He explored the swollen skin, tracing the opening before dipping a finger inside of Sherlock’s body.

There was a moan, swallowed by the lapping waves, and Sherlock was not sure if it was him or John that made the noise. John’s fingers didn’t stop moving, stroking the smooth walls inside of him before pressing into the hard length of Sherlock’s growing erection.

Sherlock’s hips jumped then and he felt the smooth slide of his cock leaving his body. It curved against his belly sharply, and he felt John’s fingers tightening around the base of him, pressing against his swollen flesh. “It is long,” he heard John say as he slid up his body, sliding his own cock up against Sherlock’s with a smooth rock of his lips. “And…slippery.”

Sherlock was beyond words. He wanted to reach up, sink his claws into John’s hips and hold him there, not allow him to leave until he was painted with their release. John’s body found a rhythm that was coaxed by the tides and Sherlock was already leaking, his release a milky cloud between them. Sherlock threw one of his arms over his mouth, sinking his teeth into his own flesh to keep himself from reaching for John, clinging to him.

But then John’s hands were around both of them, stroking them together. His hands were soon covered in the slick lubricant Sherlock’s body produced and with a pant Sherlock was reaching his climax, his tail whipping under John’s body. John’s knees tightened around him, holding on, riding him, reaching his own peak with Sherlock’s cock still twitching in his hands.

They were silent as John slid his hands through the water, cleaning them but not moving to climb off of Sherlock. Sherlock was purring, skin on fire as he undulated underneath his human. “John…” Sherlock sighed, reaching up to slide the back of his hands over John’s skin, careful to keep his claws away from his delicate flesh.

John leaned down, holding Sherlock’s face between his hands. Sherlock frowned slightly but John pressed a kiss to his cheek, then over the sealed slits of the gills on his neck. Sherlock nudged against John, taking deep breaths of his scent, licked the salt from his skin. Then John’s lips were against his and Sherlock stilled, opening his eyes in confusion.

It didn’t last long. John pulled away, a soft smile on his face as he looked down at Sherlock. “Sirens do that. What is that?”

“A kiss,” John said, his smile growing slightly.

Sherlock frowned slightly. “But why?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s something humans do.”

Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes. “Humans are strange.”

John chuckled, settling down on top of Sherlock, who wanted to hold him but didn’t.

They dozed, the water lapping at their bodies, until the sun began to rise. Sherlock slipped away before John woke, diving deep into the water as the warmth of his human and the sun seeped away with every furious kick of his tail.

He was intercepted by a golden-coloured eel whose face was bisected by a pearly white scar. It was familiar to Sherlock, of course, and Sherlock slowed. “What does he want, then?”

The eel didn’t speak, it couldn’t. Instead it began swimming, curling through the water. Sherlock knew he shouldn’t follow, he knew it would lead to danger, but he went.

He saw a curl of tentacle before he saw anything else. Sherlock shivered.

“Hi,” Moriarty chirped as the eel circled his shoulders, accepting a languid stroke. “Thank you, Moran. I knew you would find him. Sherlock, I must say you’ve been a very bad boy. Tsk.” Moriarty studied him, eyes wide in mock concern. “What would your brother say?”

“He would banish me like he banished you,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “Are you planning on telling him?”

“Oh, now why on earth would I do that?” Moriarty said with an arch of his dark brow. “I have a proposition for you, Sherlock. I can help you.”

“How?” Sherlock had never trusted Moriarty’s magic. It always came with a price, some sort of caveat. It never, ever ended well.

Moriarty raised a tentacle, ticking Sherlock’s chin. “You want your human. You envy him his legs. What if I could give you your very own pair? They would be yours, forever if the price is right.”

Sherlock’s heart pounded. “You…you can do that? You can… turn me human?”

Moriarty’s smile was slow and menacing. “I can turn you into whatever you like, Sherlock. Just say the word.”

“What do want in return?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

Moriarty chuckled. “Oh, not much. Just a few things, trifles really. Namely…your voice.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “What… why?”

Moriarty waved a dismissive hand, his tentacles twisting beneath him. “I have a proposition. A challenge. I take your voice, and I take your human’s memory. You have three days to get him to fall in love with you, and he must kiss you, a kiss of true love.”

Sherlock scoffed. “True love?”

“Oh come now Sherlock, surely you’ve charmed him once. You can do it again.”

Sherlock licked his lips, watching Moran disappear into Moriarty’s tangle of tentacles. “And if I fail?”

Moriarty blinked innocently, with both sets of eyelids. “If you fail, you belong to me.”

Sherlock knew, deep down, that would be the cost. Moriarty had always wanted him, to consume him and own him. He nodded once, mind racing.

“Do we have an accord?” Moriarty asked, surging forward, holding out a hand.

Sherlock studied it. Considered it. His heart was pounding, but he knew that he had no other choice. There was nothing that he wanted more, and he would sacrifice anything to have his human. To be human.

He took Moriarty’s hand, and the world went dark.

  


\---

 

John woke up on the beach alone, naked and stretched out on the sand. He was disoriented for a bit, longer than he should have been, but made for his sand-covered breeches. They were bloody uncomfortable, cold and itchy, but they would work until he made it back to Stamford’s manor. He waded through the wet sand further up the beach, pulling on his tunic and slipping on his shoes. He ruffled his hair and it was stiff and gritty. He winced; he would most definitely need a long bath to get rid of all of the sand that was caked onto his body. He started up the coastline, back toward Stamford’s castle.

He tried to remember why he was naked at the beach, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember any of it. Perhaps he had been sleepwalking. That was the only logical solution, even if it was a struggle to define it as logical in any way.

He could see the Northumberland in the distance, men arriving to begin their days’ worth of repairs, and he smiled slightly at the old girl. She would be fit for sea soon enough and they could continue on their way.

There was a loud clanging of a bell and shouting up ahead. A group of people were running toward the shoreline, gathering around something that had washed ashore. John frowned but surged forward, speeding up his pace when he saw the sand was stained red with blood.

“Move aside, I’ve medical training,” John said and the crowd parted. It was partly true. He had started training to be a doctor before he enlisted in the Navy. That was something he and Stamford had in common, except Stamford had finished his studies and set them aside when his father died and he was called upon to take over as Lord.

What John saw on the sand turned his stomach. A man, rail thin and pale as a ghost, laid on the sand covered in what John presumed was his own blood. He was nude, his legs akimbo. It seemed that someone had sliced the length of both of his legs from inner thigh down to ankle and the cuts were deep enough to not be able to clot on their own. He was still losing blood and John didn’t hesitate taking the man into his arms. He was thin but tall so it was awkward to carry his limp body, but John did so. Thankfully there was a cart waiting when they made it to the loading dock and they raced back to Stamford’s castle, John trying his best to prop the young man’s legs up higher than the level of his heart in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

By the time they made it back to the castle the young man’s lips had gone blue and he was shivering. He was unconscious otherwise, which John viewed as a blessing. He could not imagine the amount of pain that he might have been dealing with otherwise.

Stamford took one look at him and stood from his breakfast table, leading John into his office where his medical kit and supplies could be found. John laid the man on the floor, sparing only a passing thought towards how impossible it would be to remove the blood stains from the wood. Stamford didn’t seem to pay it any mind. “These will need stitches,” Stamford said gravely, gathering all of the cat gut he could manage. “A great many stitches. I may need you to go into town to fetch more and assist me when you return. There will be hundreds.”

John nodded. “Can…can we send one of your men after them? I…”

“Yes, of course.” Stamford sighed as if he were disappointed in himself for not thinking of it first. “Go and come back, I may need you to hold him down as we sterilize the wounds.”

John felt a wave of nausea but stood, going to find a man to send to town with instruction to buy all of the cat gut he could find, along with a few spare needles for stitching. The man raced off and John didn’t hesitate to return to the office, where Stamford was uncorking a bottle of whiskey with his teeth. John desperately wanted to ask for a drink, but he decided that the young man needed it more than he did. “I’ll hold his legs still,” John said softly as he crossed to kneel at the young man’s feet. They were long and slender like the rest of his body, and John sat up on his knees, pressing the man’s ankles into the floor. He felt no resistance.

“Right, he may wake up from this, it burns like hellfire,” Stamford warned before he splashed whiskey over the wounds, his own face twisted into a wince. The man didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He simply continued to shiver. When Stamford was done disinfecting he reached for a stack of white linen cloths he had brought over, giving half to John. “Clean the wounds as best you can. We’ll need to be able to see them properly if we want to stitch well.”

John nodded and began the work of wiping away the blood. He tried to be gentle. The wounds were still oozing but not pouring blood, which was a good sign. The cuts seemed to only be skin deep; He could see no sign of muscles being damaged. He tossed cloth after cloth over his shoulder as he worked his way up the man’s left leg, focused on only the task he had been given.

When they were done Stamford began the arduous task of stitching him up. He started at the crook of his inner thigh, pulling the skin back together and stitching it into place with practice motions. The stitches there were closer together and John understood why- easing the strain on an area of the body that the man would probably inadvertently strain more heavily than the flesh of his knees or ankles. The muscles of the thigh worked, expanded and contracted, and would perhaps take longer to heal.

Stamford had made it nearly to the man’s left knee when his servant returned with a large satchel of cat gut and needles. John sanitized one of the hooked needles and set to work on the man’s other leg. John took longer with each stitch than Stamford did, perhaps because of his abbreviated training or perhaps because he was obsessive about making sure that each stitch was perfect. Stamford had finished with his leg and sanitized the neat row of stitches before beginning to clean up the mess they had made. John lost count of the number of stitches he had put in the man after around the 200 mark, and he started slightly when the young man began to stir. “Hold still mate, there’s a bit more to go. Keep your legs still for me, yeah?”

The young man’s eyes fluttered and he let out a low groan as his head rolled against the hard wood floor. He did as he was asked, however, and kept his legs still.

Stamford returned with a sheet that he spread on the floor beside the young man just as John was sanitizing his own row of stitches. The man hissed and tried to pull away but John did his best to hold him still, spewing out a litany of words that were meant to be calming the man, or perhaps just calming himself.

Stamford was readying an injection of what appeared to be pain medication and John let out a relieved sigh. At least the man wouldn’t be suffering as much. “Right, we need to get him over on this sheet and get him in a bed upstairs. We’ll need to go slow, make sure we don’t hurt him.”

“Yeah, of course,” John said with a frantic nod, carefully cradling the man’s calves in his hands, waiting to move until Stamford had given him the signal. They barely lifted him at all as they deposited him onto the sheet with minimal issue. He seemed to have lost consciousness again, which perhaps meant the pain medicine was taking effect. John and Stamford carried him upstairs, depositing him in the bedroom that was next to the one that John was occupying during his stay.

Stamford bandaged his legs loosely, mostly to collect any blood that was still draining from the wounds, before stacking pillow after pillow under the man’s feet, elevating his legs. John gathered up blankets with which to cover him, relieved that the man’s lips weren’t blue anymore.

“I’ll sit with him,” John volunteered, pulling a chair to the side of the bed.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Stamford argued. “You’ll go take a bath and have something to eat. After you’ve done those things then I may consider it.”

John let out a tired sigh but conceded to Stamford’s request. The bath tub had to be refilled three times before John felt that he was free from the sand. After dressing he went downstairs and filled his plate and ate as quickly as he could. He drank three cups of tea and felt the buzz of them under his skin before deciding that perhaps enough time had passed and he could relieve Stamford of his bedside duties.

When John re-entered the bedroom Stamford was helping the man take a drink of water. His eyes flicked up when he saw John and they were the same strange blue-green colour as the point where the ocean meets the sky. There was something in those eyes, an instant brightness as he pushed away the cup in Stamford’s hand and opened his mouth to speak.

No sound came out. The man brought a hand up to his throat, frowning for a moment before a dawning realization crossed his face. Only then did the man’s hand flop back down to his side uselessly, and the look that he gave John morphed from one of hope to one of resignation. He reached for the glass of water again and Stamford handed it to him.

He drank the water in long pulls, a soft hum of contentment rumbling from his chest as he did so. When the glass was empty he handed it back to Stamford, who refilled it. “I think I’ll have the kitchen send him up some things to eat. He needs something on the stomach other than water.”

“Thank you,” John told him as he disappeared, and John hesitated before he dropped down in the seat that Stamford had vacated. He watched the man drink this cup of water more slowly, his bright aquamarine eyes darting to John frequently. He would seem to catch himself staring and force his eyes away only for his gaze to find John again moments later. Every time their eyes would catch John would offer the man a smile, but the man only sipped at his water, his face a good approximation of blankness. “I wish you could tell me what happened to you,” John said softly, taking the empty glass from the man again.

The man let out a soft whimper and tried to shift in bed, but a wave of pain must have overtaken him because he went as pale as a sheet and stilled. He swallowed thickly as he scrambled to push away the blankets, growing more and more frantic the more he had to throw away. When he uncovered his body, which was still nude and only clean from the waist down, he stilled. His hands were shaking as they settled first on his hips, then through the dark thatch of hair that led to his manhood, then over the tops of his thighs. When he reached the line of stitches he flinched away, taking a shaking breath as he held his hands up in front of his face to study them with his wide eyes. He curled and uncurled his fingers, wiggling them before turning back to John with a look of sheer excitement on his face. He tried to speak again but went red when he remembered he could not. Something traumatic had happened to this man, something that he had not expected to survive. He had lost his voice in the process but still had his legs and his hands He still had his life.

“You’re alright, I’ll make sure you’re alright,” John said softly, reaching over to rest a hand on the man’s shoulder. “For now, we need to think of something to call you.”

The man sighed deeply, but waved a hand.

Each of John’s suggestions was met with a sigh, an eye roll, or a shake of the head. He thought deeply as he watched the man pick through his breakfast, sniffing each item before eating it as if he were attempting to detect poison. He bypassed the cup of tea altogether, reaching out for water instead.

“Sebastian,” John offered, and the man scoffed. “Fine, not that. Why not… William?”

The man wrinkled his nose, but did not dismiss it. Finally, he shrugged.

“Good. Nice to meet you, William. I’m John,” he held out his hand and the other man frowned at it for a moment before wrapping his fingers around it briefly. “You’re a bit strange.”

William looked at him like he had said uttered the most inane statement of all time. John laughed. After a few moments William yawned widely, surprising even himself. He settled down in the bed, dragged the blankets back over his body, and closed his eyes.

John let him rest.

  


\---

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he slept. When he awoke he was alone in the room that John and the other human had brought him to, a pitcher of water and a glass sitting close enough that he could reach it on his own. He poured a glass for himself. He wasn’t sure if it was all in his head, but he felt like he was drying out. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth uncomfortably and the cool water helped ease that sensation. His eyes were drawn to his feet, which were poking out of the bottom of the blankets covering him.

He stared at them, marvelling at the sight. It was like a particularly vivid dream, seeing them at the end of his new legs. He wrinkled his brow, thinking about…there. He wiggled his toes, which send a painful sort of tightness down his legs, but it was worth it to see the long, slender digits move because Sherlock had simply wanted them to.

He should have expected that Moriarty would have made this a part of his bargain, this traumatic injury that meant Sherlock was all but confined to bed for three days. He remembered the sight of the long line where he had been sewn back together, the seam that ripped his fin into two pieces evident. Of course Moriarty could have done his work and not left Sherlock with wounds, but what would be the fun in that?

Moriarty was nothing if not melodramatic.

Even still, Sherlock had legs. He might not be able to walk quite yet, but they were his. And his human had been the one to find him. Moriarty had not expected that when he was dumped on the shore, surely. His John didn’t recognize him, didn’t remember him, but he was there and just as kind to a stranger as he had been to a strange sea creature.

He could do this. He could make John see who he was, reach inside of him and pull out the memories that his muscles still held. He felt sure of this, as sure as he felt that he could accomplish anything with John at his side.

His pain was bearable, easily forgotten. He drank more water, and only then did he realize that he needed to relieve himself. He looked around the room, brows knitted together. He could see nothing that appeared to be a place to void his bladder. And of course he couldn’t call for help. The only thing that seemed remotely plausible was a metal basin that sat on the floor near the end of the object on which Sherlock had been laid upon. He assumed it was what humans used to sleep, but there were a great many things in this room that he did not know or even begin to understand.

He sat up, trying to figure out how he could reach the basin. He pressed the heel of his hand against his groin, which felt strange to him. Dry but soft, like the way the fin of his tail had felt brushing against his skin. It was also slightly hard, which was disconcerting. He winced as he made to throw his legs over the side of the bed, settling on perhaps being able to hook the basin with one of his toes and dragging it close enough to pick up.

Toes, he soon discovered, tended to have a mind of their own. He could not move them individually like he could his fingers, except for the largest one. His tongue caught between his teeth as he reached. The stitches pulled and he could feel blood running anew down his leg, but he refused to give up. His bladder ached in sympathy and he let out a frustrated sigh.

He swung his leg a bit and in the process he ended up kicking the basin farther away from himself, far enough that he could no longer reach it. Fuming, Sherlock hurled one of the soft bags that had been under his head at the basin in frustration, which only caused it to clatter again and skitter father away. He dropped his face into his hands, shaking with shame and pain and anger that were all fighting for dominance.

“What on earth are you doing? Get back in bed!” Came John’s voice from the doorway, and Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, pointing towards the sack and the basin before motioning to his genitals.

John stilled, looking from Sherlock to the hand that Sherlock had shifted to cover this suddenly vulnerable part of his body. John turned a stunning shade of red and nodded in understanding, fetching the basin and bringing it over to Sherlock.

“Here, yeah, sorry,” he said in a breathless rush. “As soon as you’re done I’m helping you lay back down and cleaning you up. I should get you a bell or something.”

Sherlock had not heard of this word before but he nodded in agreement as he lifted his semi-hard penis over the rim of the basin and relaxed his bladder. He couldn’t help the groan of relief at the sensation, and his eyes fell closed for a moment. When he opened them again John was busying himself with tiding things on a nearby shelf that didn’t really need tidying. Sherlock smiled slightly when he realized it was to give him some semblance of privacy while urinating. So this was something that humans felt shame for doing, something done in solitude.

When he was finished he shifted the pan to the end of the bed, looking over to John. He cleared his throat to John’s back and he turned back towards Sherlock, moving over to move the pan outside of the room. He returned. “Alright, let me lift up your legs for you, yeah? You just focus on turning. When you’re comfortable nod, and I’ll let your legs down. Savvy?”

Sherlock nodded, pressing his hands down to lift his hips a bit to make the move easier. It took a while, but soon he was settled back into bed. John used a cloth to gently wipe away the blood before tossing it away.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve pulled any stitches, at least,” John said softly as he inspected the wounds. “And they don’t look like they’re getting infected, but it’s early days yet.”

Days. His timeline hit him again. He had only three days to make sure that John loved him, loved him enough to kiss him and give him his human life. Sherlock studied his human, the slope of his shoulders, his sturdy hands, the wrinkle that formed between his brows when he was concentrating.

He loved his John. He knew that was the feeling that was overwhelming him. He needed John, and he only had to convince John that he needed Sherlock just as much.

Sherlock reached out, resting a hand on John’s arm. He tightened his fingers, marvelling at the warmth and the texture of his hair. John had more hair on his arm that Sherlock did. He didn’t know what that meant, but he liked it. He liked everything about John.

John’s movements stilled when Sherlock touched him, and he turned slightly to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Are you okay? In pain?” John asked, that worried crease appearing between his eyebrows.

Sherlock was quick to shake his head, trailing his fingertips over John’s skin. He tugged slightly, wanting John closer, but the other man didn’t move. Perhaps his didn’t understand what exactly Sherlock wanted. _Closer. I want you closer. I want to touch you, every inch of you. I want to tangle our legs together and become so fully entwined with you that we will never be separated. Not even Moriarty’s tricky magic could pull us apart._

John smiled at him, watching Sherlock trace swirls into his skin. “We should ask Stamford about a wheeled chair. I am not sure if that would put too much pressure on your stitches but it would be nice, not having you confided to the bed up here. You could have meals with us. Would you like that?”

Sherlock had not been listening to John’s words, not really. He was too busy watching the shift of his face as he spoke. The way he licked his lips before preparing to speak. When he fell silent Sherlock nodded again. He would agree to anything John wanted.

“I should go, I have some business to attend to in the village before it gets too late,” John said, though he made no effort to move just yet. He was watching Sherlock’s fingers. “You…” he looked up, narrowing his eyes slightly. “You seem familiar. Do I…”

Sherlock nodded frantically, tightening his grip on John’s arm. _Yes, maybe… maybe John would look at him at it would come rushing back, the beach, their strange kiss…_

John looked stricken for a moment before he stood. “No, I can’t be remembering right. Things are all…muddled. I remember a voice. And you…” he sighed again, but put on a smile. “I’ll bring you something back from the village. Fruit, perhaps. Or a book. Can you read?”

Sherlock could read. He could not read English well, however, so he shook his head.

John nodded once. “Well I’ll find something we can read together, yeah? What are your thoughts on adventure stories?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and John chuckled. “Alright, no adventures. How about mysteries?”

When Sherlock perked up a bit John did too, and promised to return with plenty of reading material for them to share. Sherlock mostly looked forward to the melodic sound of John’s voice painting pictures with his words.

  
\---  


Sherlock dozed through the night, his sleep light because of the pain in his legs.

When he woke, he heard something that he couldn’t be hearing.

He heard footsteps. That was true. That was possible. He heard John’s voice, which was also possible. But he also heard his own voice, melodic and slightly strange. It was like hearing an echo. He sat up like a bolt, his frown deep.  
  
The door to his room opened, and John came in first, his cheeks flushed bright. Sherlock smiled slightly, but it melted when he saw who was following John.

He looked different without his twisting tentacles, but his large brown eyes and predatory smile were all but familiar. He was dressed to the nines, in a well-tailored suit, stiff-collared white shirt and a cravat held in place with a tie pin that appeared to be a gold nautilus.

“William, you’re awake,” John said with a smile, motioning to Jim. “This is James Moriarty. He’s who saved my life, when I nearly drowned in the storm. It was so strange, I was in the village and I heard a voice, a really familiar one, and I followed it. And I found him! Isn’t it cracking?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, looking from John to Moriarty. John was studying Moriarty like he hung the moon, while Moriarty was looking at John like something to be consumed. Sherlock felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He curled his fingers into the blankets and swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. _No, it isn’t cracking. I need you more than he does, John. Can’t you see that? It’s my voice that you’re hearing, my voice you’re remembering, my touch that still holds sway over your skin. Please hear me._

“Stamford has asked for Mr Moriarty to stay for dinner,” John said, licking his lips as he looked from Sherlock back to Moriarty. His cheeks coloured even darker, and Moriarty’s smile grew wider.

“And I have graciously accepted the offer, if only for the pleasant company,” Moriarty said in Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his own throat without thinking. Moriarty winked, tapping a finger to his lips. He then rested a hand on John’s shoulder. They were near the same height, and Sherlock hated nothing more than he hated James Moriarty in that moment.

“Come on, I brought you a wheelchair, William,” John said, crossing over to the bed. “Can I help you get dressed? After that we can try out the chair, so that you can join us downstairs if you like.”

Sherlock wanted to say no. He wanted to stew upstairs on his own, pretending that he couldn’t hear his own voice charming John through breakfast, But John was pulling back his blankets, and Sherlock was still naked from the waist down. Sherlock preened slightly, raising his eyebrows at Moriarty, who was standing by the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, observing them in silence.

“Shall I give you some privacy, John?” Moriarty asked, the sound of Sherlock’s voice leaving his lips making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “I’m not sure it’s the best idea, me being here. Especially because he is clearly simple.”

Sherlock let out an offended noise, and Moriarty’s smile grew. John had crossed to a chest to find a loose pair of pants for Sherlock. “We should be down shortly, it shouldn’t take long at all.”

Moriarty nodded. “Of course. I shall we waiting patiently for you both downstairs.”

Sherlock studied John’s face as he helped him dress, disheartened by the impassive nature of his expression. Sherlock bit his lip as he lifted his hips for John, willed the other man to look at his genitals, perhaps express some sort of fleeting interest, but there was nothing. John was ever the gentleman.

It was infuriating.

Sherlock would have to re-evaluate. He should have expected Moriarty to make things more difficult.

Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible.

Sherlock reached out, resting his hand on John’s arm for a moment before going for his hand. He tried to lace their fingers together but John pulled his hand away with a soft sound of confusion. “Are you alright? Was I being too rough?”

Sherlock shook his head, letting out a huff of annoyance. He reached for John’s hand again, trying to tug it towards his chest. Perhaps if John felt how fast his heart was beating, then maybe he would understand that Sherlock needed him.

Once again, John pulled his hand away, curling his fingers into a fist as he averted his gaze. “Right, we should… I can carry you downstairs, but we’ll have to take it slow. If you’re hurting you just have to let me know. Tap my shoulder, or something.”

Dejected, Sherlock nodded, allowing himself to be hoisted into John’s arms. He was taller than the other man so the positioning was awkward, and his stitches were pulling and hot flashes of pain were searing through the wounds, but he did not tap John’s shoulder.

He could handle the pain.

As gingerly as he could manage John took him down the stairs and got him settled in a large pushchair. Moriarty was loitering near the entrance to the dining room, his arms folded behind his back as he studied a piece of art like it meant something to him. Perhaps it did, Sherlock wasn’t sure. Only then did he consider that perhaps Moriarty had spent time walking among the humans before, using his magic to fashion himself legs regularly. How often did he toy with humans? Had it become his new pastime when he had been banished by the merfolk?

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, especially as John left his side in order to join Moriarty by the painting. The look that Moriarty levelled on the smaller blonde was predatory and purely for Sherlock's benefit. It made his stomach churn. It made him want to reach for John's hand, pull him back and pepper the skin of his fingers with kisses.

But he didn't. Instead he wheeled himself into the dining room with minimal difficulty, stewed his way through the meal and tried not to let the sound of his own voice coming from Moriarty's mouth drive him deeper into desolation than the fond look that John continued to level the other man with had done.

Dinner went on for far too long. Stamford gave up on trying to include Sherlock in the conversation, but spend a good amount of time expressing his excitement at finally meeting the person who had caught Captain Watson's discerning eye.

Stamford entertained Moriarty enthusiastically as John escorted Sherlock back upstairs, to bed. Sherlock didn't try to touch him again, didn't try to draw his attention in any way. He knew it would do no good, and he would rather spend the night trying to regroup than make a useless attempt now. Moriarty had spent too much time making sure that John was thoroughly charmed by him, and Sherlock had been handicapped in too many ways to be able to do much in the way of winning John over tonight.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that he may not be able to win John over at all.

His sleep was restless, filled with pain and unease. He felt every ache in his legs, every tug of muscle and skin and stitch, but he needed to. He needed to be reminded of what he had sacrificed to have the chance at being human.

He couldn't afford to forget, not for a moment.

  


\---  


Next morning, he awoke from a nightmare to find himself living one. Rather than John delivering his breakfast and spending the morning chatting with him as had become their usual, it was Moriarty. He was perched on the end of Sherlock's bed, breakfast tray in his lap as he picked through the fruit on the tray with a wrinkled nose. "Humans really do eat the strangest things, don't they?"

Sherlock sat bolt upright, because Moriarty's voice was...Moriarty's. Not Sherlock's. For a breathtaking moment Sherlock hoped. When he opened his mouth Moriarty leveled him with a withering glare, but it didn't stop Sherlock from trying.

But no sound escaped him.

Moriarty tutted, setting the half-eaten tray down on the bed before standing. "Did you really think it would be that simple, Sherlock? Have you seen how he reacts to your voice, dearest? I'd be a fool to just give that back to you, now wouldn't I? He's an eager one, my John."

Sherlock's hands tightened against the sheets and he couldn't help but mouth the word 'Mine' at Moriarty. It only served to widen the other man's vicious smile.

"Mine," Moriarty sing-songed, holding out a hand to show John's signet ring, which sat on his ring finger. "He's asked me to spend the rest of my days with him. It's all quite sudden, but he wants it all sorted before the _Northumberland_ sets back out to sea. The men seem to think that will be within the next few weeks, but we know how those sorts of things go."

Sherlock's vision went red. He kicked the tray violently. The sharp pain and sudden warmth in his leg told him that he was bleeding anew, but he didn't care. The clattering of the metal tray and the shattering of glass was as close as he could get to screaming, and he wanted nothing more than to scream.

"Now, now..." Moriarty scolded, kicking aside a large shard of glass as he made his way back to Sherlock's beside. "That is no way to congratulate a friend, Sherlock. And if you don't behave yourself you'll make my decision on whether to kill John Watson or not frightfully simple. You don't want that, do you?"

Sherlock swallowed around a lump in his throat, but it didn't budge. He swallowed again, and blinked rapidly when his eyes began to burn and leak. He felt sick, and the sheets were beginning to stain red, but he could do nothing but curl in on himself, breathing heavily and willing his heart to stop beating.

"Poor Sherlock, the sore loser," Moriarty sighed. "I'll send up the doctor, shall I? Wouldn't want you to bleed out before the wedding."

Sherlock heard him leave. He expected something more, more taunting, perhaps, or prodding at open wounds, but it didn't happen.

He didn't expect John to be the doctor summoned, but perhaps it was a more vicious way of prodding the wound. "James said you tried to attack him," John snapped by way of introduction, pulling the bloody sheet away. "I'd ask why in God's name you'd even attempt such a thing, but you're dumb, how am I to expect any sort of reply from someone who cannot read, let alone speak."

Sherlock started to protest, to grab for John but the other man was disinfecting the freshly opened wounds and it hurt. Everything hurt. Sherlock sank his teeth into the fleshy part of his hand and whimpered as his eyes continued to burn and leak. He licked his lips and tasted the ocean, and he felt like part of him was dying, begging to be returned to the sea to be laid to rest.

"After tomorrow, you'll have to find somewhere else to convalesce," John said after a long moment's silence. "You're dangerous, and I don't trust that you won't try to hurt someone again."

Sherlock sat up, surging forward. John's face was still close enough that Sherlock could brush his lips against the other mans. He kissed him fiercely, with nips and whimpers that tried to say everything that Sherlock himself couldn't.

_Please believe me._

_Please don't leave me._

But John pulled away, shoving Sherlock back after letting his hands linger for a moment against his chest. "No," John growled, then shoved him again. "No," he repeated, more firmly, his jaw set as he studied Sherlock's prone form for a moment before turning to go, leaving Sherlock lying in a small pool of his own blood.

Stamford arrived shortly after, but was not his usual jovial self. He took away the soiled sheets, cleaned up the mess left behind by the breakfast tray, and double checked the work John had done on his leg.

Sherlock laid there shivering. His eyes were constantly leaking, and he hated it.

“Don't cry now, I can get you something for pain if it's bad,” Samford finally said, unable to keep up his steely facade for long.

Sherlock wiped his face but shook his head. The physical pain was tolerable, nothing he couldn't manage.

Stamford nodded, turning to leave. He hesitated when he reached the door. “They are having some sort of ceremony tomorrow, committing to one another. I'm not sure if you'll be invited, but I will make sure that you are brought food throughout the day. “

Sherlock nodded again, blinking away a fresh round of tears.

“I am sorry,” Stamford said, his tone sincere and face sad. “I am not sure that this James Moriarty is the best for him, but Captain Watson is convinced. I think you and I are in agreement , William. I'll check in on you later.”

Sherlock didn't check to see exactly when he left. He wasn't sure if Stamford had come back to check on him, and he fell asleep with his face still wet.

  
\---

 

The ceremony was set for the following evening and was to take place on the lawns of Stamford's estate. Sherlock could see some of the activity from his bedroom window and he watched them set up chairs and a wrought iron archway as he picked at his lunch tray. He would catch the occasional view of John or Moriarty , which only served to upset him more.

It took him most of the day to decide what he wanted to do.

Sherlock had watched a ceremony like this once before. It had taken place on a ship in the middle of the ocean, and Sherlock had drawn closer and closer until his ears could pick up what was being said between the man and woman standing in front of a man who was dressed in an elaborate robe.

At one point the man in the robe addressed the crowd, asking if anyone had an objection as to why the two should not be joined together in matrimony. No one had spoken up during that ceremony, but Sherlock remembered that moment clearly.

He had to get down to the lawn and object, somehow. The wheeled chair was at the foot of his bed, but getting into it was only the first hurdle.

He licked his lips as he lifted himself into the chair, ignoring the uncomfortable tug of his stitches. He wheeled himself over to the dresser and pulled out clothes, pulling on the pajama pants with some difficulty. His hands were shaking as he buttoned the crisp top, and he could see that he was already bleeding through the fabric of the pants.

He didn't care.

He wheeled himself to the stairs and his heart thudded when he heard music filtering in from outside, intermingled with the sounds of people talking and laughing. Sherlock thought he could hear his own voice there too, deep and resonant, but he couldn't be sure.

The sound of the music swelled and the voices fell silent and Sherlock knew he had to get downstairs, he had to find a way. He didn't trust that his legs could hold his weight, but he had no other option. He reached for the banister, clutching it tightly as he hoisted himself to his feet. All of the muscles in his legs were quivering with the strain but he surged forward, still clinging tightly to the banister.

His feet seemed ungainly, too large, and he let out a shuttering breath as he felt a hot trickle of blood start a path down his skin. He shivered as a sheen of moisture sprung up over his face, but he kept going, trying not to think about the trail of blood he must be leaving.

He couldn't stop moving. Not now. If he slowed down he would never be able to keep going-- he was already tired and his entire body hurt, but he couldn't stop.

He was thankful, at least, that the doors that lead outside were thrown open. People were working frantically in the dining room to get food laid out for the guests, but Sherlock walked by, his steps halting but sure as he crossed the threshold to the grounds.

The first thing he noticed was the feeling of grass between his toes. It tickled, soft and unlike any sensation he had ever felt. He thought, under different circumstances, he would quite enjoy it, but right now he wanted to focus solely on finding John.

And he found John. People were standing in rows, but there was a clear path down the center to where John and Moriarty stood facing one another in front of a man wearing the dress uniform of the Navy. The uniform that John himself was wearing, his posture tall and sure. Moriarty wore no uniform, but was dressed in a nicely fitting suit. They all stood in front of the setting sun, the light almost blinking.

But it was John who saw him first, for this Sherlock was grateful. He was not grateful for the weakness he felt in his knees when his eyes met John's. There was a flurry of emotion that crossed John's face but he didn't hesitate when he saw Sherlock's steps falter. He surged forward, running back down the aisle to catch him before he hit the ground.

“William, what on earth are you doing? You're not meant to be walking, you've hurt yourself...” John said in a rush, guiding Sherlock down to the ground, where he settled back on the grass. “Come on, don't faint on me, stay with me, alright?”

Sherlock's head was lolling, and he clung to John. His lips formed the words _stay with me_ but no sound left his lips, none at all. John was close, so close, and he was speaking but Sherlock could not make out the words, couldn't seem to focus enough to bring any sort of cohesion to them.

But he did lean forward. He did brush his lips against John's lightly, pouring everything that he had left into the kiss. _Remember me_ , he said. _Stay with me_.

He thought he felt John begin to kiss him back, but he couldn't be sure. He slipped into unconsciousness soon after his lips touched John's.

  


\---

 

He woke up with the taste of blood on his tongue. He felt water lapping at his fin and he tried to take a deep breath, but something was wrong. He blinked his eyes open and was looking up at the night sky, his gills flaring as he tried to breathe.

He tried to wriggle closer to the water but he was tied up and couldn't manage it. He rolled from his back to his stomach, beginning to panic a bit, but something tightened in his chest when he saw John tied up beside him, a wound on his forehead. His skin was stained with blood and his blue eyes were closed.

“John,” he croaked, his voice weak and shaking.

Then he stopped. He looked down at his purplish black fin, his long torso wrapped in thick braided rope, and his heart began to pound faster. He had failed. He had kissed John and it hadn't worked.

Most likely he would die here, slowly suffocating near the water's edge while the tide slowly advanced, dragging John down into the depths. “John,” Sherlock repeated, raising his voice a bit. “John, you need to wake up,”

John groaned and cracked open an eye. “Jim?” he asked softly. In the darkness Sherlock could see John's eyes struggling to focus on Sherlock's face. At first his expression was confused, frown deep, but slowly the frown melted away to be replaced with something etched with sadness. “Oh...” he sighed, his shoulders straining a bit against his bonds. “What did he do?”

“Nothing I didn't ask for,” Sherlock said, his voice thin. He gasped, his fins flaring against the sand. “I... I wanted to be human. I made a deal, and I failed.”

“You...it was you...” John said softly, licking his cracked lips. “It was you the whole time. I remember. God, I remember everything.”

“I'm sorry, John,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes as he gasped again, feeling faint. “I tried.”

“No...no no no don't go to sleep, don't...” John said, lifting his head up. “We've got to get you to the water.”

“Oh, we really don't need to get him to the water, my dear John,” a lilting voice interjected, and Sherlock shivered. “He's an albatross hanging around your neck, just let him die already. Stop trying to save him.”

Sherlock watched as John swallowed, his throat working. He blinked sand out of his eye as he looked up at Moriarty, his face going artfully blank, although his lips were tight and thin. “You tricked me. How did you...”

“He's got magic,” Sherlock gasped, his hands going numb from the tightness of his binds. “I... I told you, I made a deal...”

Moriarty came to a halt, resting his foot over the lump of Sherlock's bound hands. “Little Sherlock fell in love and sacrificed everything he had to be human. Isn't that sweet? Problem is, he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. All he had to do was get true love's kiss before sunset on the third day of his humanity, and he just missed it. Poor Sherlock, he did try, didn't he?”

John made a soft sound, making another aborted motion toward Sherlock. “He didn't...” he started speaking, then his face went blank. “Jim, I love you,” he finally said. “Not Sherlock. It has always been you.”

Moriarty's laugh was high and genuine. John's artfully blank face folded into a frown as Moriarty came over to him, settling down on the sand beside John's head. He looked like he was trying his best to make as little contact with the sand as possible, even as he tilted his head to look into John's face. “Oh, listen to you. That was pretty convincing, I'll have to admit, but I know that it was never me you were after. I was second best, even wearing his voice like a coat. It would never work between you and I, John. Surely you must know that. I'm afraid we should go our separate ways, my dear. No hard feelings.”

John licked his lips, spitting out a few grains of sand. “So...so what, you're going to kill me? My men will look for me.”

Moriarty hummed, dusting off the fabric that covered his thigh. “I'm not sure yet, John. I think it would be more of a punishment for Sherlock to know that you're alive out there somewhere, with your little legs and blonde hair. I think it would eat him alive, wondering where you were, what you were doing, who you were doing it with. He's a curious one, you see. Inquisitive. He'll want to know, but he'll never get answers to any of those questions. I think that sounds marvelous.”

“K...” Sherlock began, but he ran out of breath. He rasped in another attempt but he was lightheaded, suffocating. “Kill me. P...please...”

“Oh come now, you're being melodramatic,” Moriarty said, standing gracefully and shaking off the sand. He crossed down to take hold of Sherlock's fin, dragging him towards the water with effort. Moriarty waded out, just far enough so that Sherlock's gills on his hips were under water, and Sherlock's eyes drifted closed with relief as he lungs filled for the first time.

He was overwhelmed with relief, so much so that he felt his eyes tingle as they had done when he was human. It was an odd sensation, and he blinked both sets of eyelids. “I'll go,” Sherlock said, his voice low and weak. “I'll go, I won't fight. Let's go, James. We can go.”

Moriarty's hands were still tight around Sherlock's fin but he let go to wade back out of the water, setting to work on the knots that bound John's wrists and ankles. He threw the rope up onto the beach before stepping back away from John. “There we are, then. Right as rain. Why don't you run along, John Watson. Run along and forget about Sherlock.”

John stretched his arms out on the sand, wincing a bit at the catch he felt in his shoulder. He climbed to his feet, stumbling a bit as he tried to regain his footing. He took a steadying breath, his eyes sliding from Sherlock to Moriarty, whose attention was back on Sherlock in full. John clenched his hands into fists. “You make deals, right? Make a deal with me.”

“No,” Sherlock growled, his sharp nails biting into the rope binding his wrists. “You can't, John, his deals are always tricks.”

“It's worth it,” John argued as Moriarty studied him with renewed interest. “You're worth it.”

“What sort of deal would you propose, then, little human?” Moriarty asked. “What on earth do you have to offer that I would want?”

John faltered. He had little in the way of material possessions, but somehow he knew that wasn't what Moriarty was after in the end. He wanted something else, something that only John Watson could give. “I'll give you whatever you want. My life.”

Sherlock made a soft sound from the water, and Moriarty moved closer. “And how much do you think a human life is worth to me? In the grand scheme of the world, how much are you really worth?”

John had no answer to such a question. It was an impossible thing to begin to answer. John listened to the soft splashing of Sherlock in the shallows and closed his eyes. “My life is worth enough that you were willing to spare it. Is that not enough?”

Moriarty didn't answer. He couldn't, not really. Pressed to the small of his back was a fierce-looked trident, held aloft by someone new. There was another merperson at his side, a man as pale as Sherlock but dotted with freckles that matched his crimson and spiny tail. They both looked fierce and wild, and there was something about the set of their mouths that had John wondering if they were related in some way.

Moriarty was frozen for a moment, but then his face melted into a smile. “Come to rescue little brother? How quaint you are, Mycroft. How predictable.”

“Your deal is invalid, Moriarty,” the creature called Mycroft said. “And you can choose a banishment into the human realm or you can choose death. The magic you used is forbidden and both you and Sherlock knew this.”

“Oh you are absolutely no fun,” Moriarty said, turning so that the trident was instead poking him in the belly. “You've got that big old trident and what do you use it for? You have so much more power at your disposal and you waste it on frivolity. I could accomplish so much if it were mine. I would have had him kill you for that trident, Mycroft. And it would have been worth it.”

“And that is treason,” Mycroft said, his voice booming.

Something shifted, and soon Moriarty's legs were shooting out into twisting tentacles. His body was a swarm of them, and one of the tentacles whipped out towards Mycroft. One tentacle wrapped around the trident's base while another made to snake around Mycroft's spiny tail but recoiled quickly when it was ran through by a poisonous barb.

There was movement everywhere. Sherlock was squirming against his bonds and when Moriarty staggered backward John launched himself onto his back, wrapping a strong forearm around his throat. John was using his body's weight to drag Moriarty downward. Moriarty's tentacles were quick to react, wrapping around John's legs to drag him below the water.

With Moriarty distracted it was all to easy for Mycroft to regain control of the trident. John was tangled in Moriarty's tentacles and held under the cold ocean water, so tightly bound that he couldn't even fight it.

“Now, Mycroft,” Sherlock bellowed by Mycroft was already moving, driving the trident deep into Moriarty's back, the force of his blow so strong that Moriarty was lifted from the water a few inches. Ink-colored blood flooded the ocean as Moriarty's lifeless body sunk down, taking the human still tangled in his grip with him.

“Save him Mycroft, please,” Sherlock begged, craning his neck in an attempt to better see his brother.

Mycroft hesitated but moved forward, picking through Moriarty's now-limp tentacles to free the human who had gone limp in his clutches. Moriarty's body was quickly dissolving into sea foam as he worked, making the water cloudy and difficult to navigate. He finally reached John and he dragged his body to the shore before using the sharp point of his trident to cut Sherlock loose from his bindings.

With a hard flick of his tail Sherlock propelled himself toward John, breathing air into his lungs and praying to any god that would listen to save John.

John didn't breathe. Sherlock tried again and again, forcing air into his lungs and shaking John roughly. “Wake up,” he cried, his sharp fingernails tearing into John's soft flesh. “Please wake up.”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft toned, his voice heavy with pity.

Sherlock shook his head, dropping it down against John's chest, where he could hear a heartbeat. Suddenly John's body convulsed and he was coughing violently, his head lifting from the sand. Sherlock's hands were all over him, trying to dust away the sand that coated John's body.

“Sherlock,” John croaked, letting his head fall back to the sand. “You're okay.”

“So are you,” Sherlock promised, his fingertips tracing the livid circular marks that marred John's sun-browned skin. “You're okay. We saved you.”

John nodded, raising an arm so that he could slide his fingers through Sherlock's curls. “Thank you,” he said before sitting up, his gaze settled on the other merman who was watching the pair of them with a strange expression on his face. “Thank you too. We wouldn't have survived if not for you.”

Mycroft nodded once before training his gaze on Sherlock. “Come along, I think you have done this human enough harm.”

“No!” John cried, reaching out for Sherlock. “No, I just found him, I can't let him go! Moriarty said you had power, use it on him. Make him human, please.”

Mycroft's expressionless gaze slid from John to Sherlock. “Is this truly what you want? Abandon your family for this human?”

Sherlock did not hesitate. He nodded.

Mycroft lowered his head and raised the trident high. “Very well.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for a pain that didn't come. He felt something give and heard John gasp.

He opened his eyes.

  
\---

 

The ceremony was held after the _Northumberland_ had set sail again. It was just like the one that Sherlock had witnessed all those years ago. No one protested their union. Nothing was brighter than John's smile when he heard Sherlock say “I do,” nothing, perhaps, but Sherlock's own smile when he heard John promise the same. The seas were calm and clear, and it stretched on to the horizon. Sherlock knew that he would not miss the sea, as he still had all of it to explore. This time, however, he had John at his side.

 


End file.
